


Deep and True and Immutable

by SilverSanctuary



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emet-Selch's Book Club January Trope Challenge, F/M, Female Warrior of Light - Freeform, G'raha Tia - Freeform, Mentions of Past Suicidal Attempts, Modern AU, Modern AU but I'm drawing on concepts and emotional journeys through 5.4, Named Warrior of light, Only One Bed, Romance, apparently I can't do fluff without angst, coffee shop AU, eventually there will be fluff, so beware of spoilers?, soul bonds, viera warrior of light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29098866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSanctuary/pseuds/SilverSanctuary
Summary: G’raha remembered her at the faculty start-of-the-semester party: a queen holding court; her hair sluicing over her left shoulder in a violet waterfall -- a lovely Viera who easily attracted the attention of everyone in the room and addressed each of her admirers with grace and wit.He was a new hire, fresh out of his doctoral program at Sharlayan University, and he had long been an admirer of her work in both historical analysis and educational theory.  So he had marched right up to her and introduced himself with gusto.“G’raha Tia, at your service.  I will be teaching the introductory history courses this semester.  It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Dr. Meteor."
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12
Collections: Bookclub Top Trope Challenge (January 2021)





	1. Love in the Time of Voidsent

**Author's Note:**

> Submission for the Emet-Selch's Book Club January Top Trope Challenge. The tropes are Coffee Shop AU, Soul Bonds, and Oh no! there's only one bed!, and I just couldn't resist.
> 
> This got a little out of hand. It was supposed to be just straight fluffy romance -- which it will definitely have! -- but G'raha also wanted to talk about depression, so content warning for that and mentions of suicidal thoughts in later chapters. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

G'raha stood in the middle of the bustling Eorzean airport terminal staring up at the flight information screen. As his eyes shifted over the flight numbers and abbreviated destinations, he identified their flight, an overnight to Kugane for the Annual Hydaelyn Historical Society Convention.

In big block capital letters, the screen declared the status of their flight: DELAYED.

As it had pronounced for the past two hours. The last word from the information desk was only that the plane need additional inspection.

G'raha sighed, shoulders slumping.

He wandered back to the little tables clustered around the airport coffee shop to rejoin his travel companion, Ravella. Her purple leporine ears swiveled at the hustle and bustle of the airport. She tapped a pencil against the papers spread across the two tables they had commandeered, her mouth twisted into an endearing frown. His own ears wiggled as he sat back down, but he forced his eyes away from her face and instead to the manuscript and notes.

“What’s the matter?” he queried.

She pushed several sheafs towards him and gestured to the sections filled with vicious cross-outs and rewrites crammed into the margins. “We need to rework this whole section. It is not strong enough; it doesn’t fully portray the agony of being separated from your soul-bond. We tried to summarize that letter from the Allag woman to her beloved, but I think we should quote directly from it instead. Do we have a copy on the drive?”

She tapped on her laptop, trying to access their shared MogCloud drive, but the cursor spun fruitlessly. She hissed under her breath and clicked urgently through settings. “Twelve-cursed airport wifi,” she grumbled.

“‘ _Were my hand my own to give, it would never leave your grasp, for we are connected by a red string of fate, our souls bonded with gold and crystal. I think of my betrothed, and I despair, desiring forever your sweet embrace. I only see your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your hands -- branded into my being, the only visage I should wish to behold for all my days_ ,’” G’raha quoted.

Ravella blinked at him with wide brown eyes. “How--”

He shrugged and ducked his head. “We’ve been mired in this research for moons now, and I did spend a fair bit of time translating it myself. It must have lodged itself in my brain.”

 _Because I thought of you when I read it_ , he left unsaid.

He reviewed her edits for their book, _Love in the Time of Voidsent: Soul-Bonds in Ancient Allag and Nym, a Historico-Literary Analysis_. They had the excerpts already selected for their reading and discussion at the conference, but their editor, Tataru Taru, usually so kind and easygoing, had started breathing down their necks about deadlines and progress reports.

So they found themselves reviewing, editing, and writing at the airport coffee shop.

He scribbled a few notes alongside her own. He reported the lack of progress on their flight, and Ravella huffed as she continued to fight with her laptop.

“Obviously I want the plane to be _safe_ , but does it really have to take so long?” Her leg bounced under the table.

He chuckled. “This is nothing. My flight back from Norvrandt was delayed a whole day due to engine issues.”

“Please do not curse us with that thought,” she groused, nose scrunching adorably.

“Twelve forfend,” he apologized. He waved his hand in the air as if to prevent that previous experience from settling into the aether.

Wicked white, he had wanted nothing more than to get on that flight back to Eorzea. He had practically cracked to pieces when it was announced that the flight was delayed, but instead of going back to the rented flat or to a hotel, he stayed in the airport, stubbornly, standing still as a statue.

Desperate to be the first one on that plane back _home_.

Back to _her_.

Dr. Ravella Meteor -- the rising star in the world of historical research; a foremost scholar on the ancient civilization of Nym; the recipient of awards and grants too numerous to name; and the youngest professor to ever be promoted to the head of the history department at the University of Eorzea.

G’raha remembered her at the faculty start-of-the-semester party: a queen holding court; her hair sluicing over her left shoulder in a violet waterfall -- a lovely Viera who easily attracted the attention of everyone in the room and addressed each of her admirers with grace and wit.

He was a new hire, fresh out of his doctoral program at Sharlayan University, and he had long been an admirer of her work in both historical analysis and educational theory. So he had marched right up to her and introduced himself with gusto.

“G’raha Tia, at your service. I will be teaching the introductory history courses this semester. It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Dr. Meteor."

“Call me Ravella, please. I am so happy you have joined the team. I must admit I was not aware of your work prior to your hiring, but I have since read several of your papers, and I believe we share similar ideas about historical theory and education.”

A thrill ran through him -- she had read his work? She agreed with his findings?

“I have big plans for introducing new educational techniques and updating our curricula,” she continued, “and I hope you will assist me. I have allies in the other departments trying to make similar changes, but in the history department, it seems like it will be you and me against the older professors and administration.”

She jerked her chin at a cluster of men in dark suits. Although the cut and color of their clothing was modern and attractive, something about them seemed ancient and stagnant. Under her breath, Ravella named them as professors Emet-Selch, Lahabrea, and Elidibus.

“They are tied to the _old ways_ of teaching,” she warned.

He grinned at the camaraderie. “It would be my pleasure to assist you, Ravella.”

Her name, a burst of starlight on his tongue. They shook hands, sealing their agreement, their alliance. And so they forged a friendship, built from navigating an ancient labyrinth of bylaws and educational code, striving to breathe new life into the processes.

They spent hours discussing theories and lesson plans, preparing arguments and doing research.

He helped her craft responses to the arguments put forth by Drs. Emet-Selch, Lahabrea, and Elidibus.

He stood at her side when she spoke confidently about the bright future they envisioned to the university board.

They laughed together in the teacher’s lounge. They met up at coffee shops on weekends to grade and plan and enjoy each other’s company.

She became his dearest friend.

“Hey!”

G’raha jumped as Ravella snapped in his face. She leaned towards him, tilting her head at him questioningly, and he blinked in surprise at her sudden closeness. For a moment, his brain was stuffed with fuzzy static -- _she’s close, she’s so close, I could just lean forward and_ \--

She pulled away and chuckled at him. “You were _malms_ away in that pretty head of yours, G’raha. I doubt my edits were that interesting. What’s on your mind?”

He took a long drink of coffee to keep himself from spluttering. “Forgive me, my friend. I -- drifted. Do you want another hot chocolate?”

She was his dearest friend, and he was desperately in love with her.


	2. A Worthy Subject

When one scoured through the various biologic, psychologic, historical, and literary references to soul-bonds, as G'raha and Ravella had done over the past six moons, one could only come to the conclusion that soul-bonds were purely fictional. There was no physical change -- no birthmark nor change in hair or eye color -- that had ever been reliably documented as being caused by a person meeting their soulmate.

That did not make it any less real to the people of the ancient civilizations. They believed with every fiber of their being that each person was destined to find another with whom they fit so perfectly that it must be designed by the heavens.

It was a particularly popular concept in both the Allagan Empire and the Floating City of Nym, and they created books, poetry, and art depicting the phenomenon.

The two civilizations depicted it _beautifully_.

A red string of fate. A tether of gold and crystal -- no doubt inspired by the Allagan Crystal Tower. A flourish of white wings tinged with blue or purple -- a reference to Nymian seraph and faeries.

A bond, deep and true and immutable.

G'raha needed those beautiful descriptions to get him through some days -- to remind him that the depths of his emotions were in fact familiar waters; that the people of ancient days were people just like him; that their hopes and dreams could echo across the rift of time to touch his life, ground him, prevent him from feeling completely unmoored. Some days, he could still feel the heaviness pressing in from all sides. It was a madness that had descended upon him in Norvrandt, a cold creeping underneath his skin that he feared he might never truly escape.

* * *

Ravella tapped her chin and shook her head. “I’ve had enough hot chocolate for tonight.”

He balked in playful shock. “Ravella? Finished with hot chocolate? I never thought I would see the day!”

She smirked at him. “But I _will_ take an iced coffee since you are so kindly offering. And since apparently I won’t be sleeping on the plane anytime soon.”

He chuckled as he rose and ordered at the counter. He stood behind a Miqo'te couple, the woman covered in a luxurious coat trimmed with fur, the man with a smart magenta vest and jacket.

"I'm telling you, my dear Dulia, once we're back in Norvrandt, I'll get you the most delicious coffee that gil can buy. I assure you this airport coffee shop is going to miss the mark."

She looped her arm through his and grinned. "But I want to try it. It's part of the _experience_ , my love! And they have little boxes of Eorzean chocolate here. We must visit every shop to find the most perfect souvenirs! Oh, maybe we can find someone to sketch our portrait!"

The man sighed, exasperation and adoration equally mixed. "I will endeavor to find an artist _in the airport._ "

G'raha concealed a smirk. The couple ordered -- a caramel macchiato for the man, an iced coffee with 10 pumps each of vanilla, caramel, and hazelnut flavoring for the woman -- and G’raha stepped up to the counter as the barista heaved a deep sigh.

“What can I get fo’ ye?” he asked in a Lominsan accent, after a moment to gather himself from that ridiculous order.

G’raha gave him a winning smile and glanced at the man’s name tag. “Ah, yes, Baderon, I would like something quite simple, actually. Two medium iced coffees, please.”

“Bless ye,” he murmured with a lopsided grin. “We get all sor’ o’ people comin’ off the planes, but I must say, it’s always refreshin’ ta see a man an’ his lady with straigh’forward tastes.”

G’raha glanced back at Ravella for a split second. Of course, it wasn’t hard for Baderon to see where everyone was sitting in the small café area from his place behind the counter.

He felt his cheeks heating up, and his tail lashed behind him. “I -- We’re not --”

G’raha clamped his mouth shut to keep from babbling further, and he thrust gil at Baderon as the Hyur shrugged his shoulder and carried on with that lopsided grin. G’raha shuffled his weight from one foot to the other until the interaction was over, and then he bolted away with the coffees in his hands.

Why had he felt the need to explain? To rebuke? Baderon had done nothing wrong, merely made a simple assumption, one that anyone could have made by seeing the two of them, intimately poring over notes and speaking closely together. He could have simply smiled blandly and nodded. He could have let the misstatement stand, and no one would have been the wiser, except for him.

Ravella looked up at him with a smile when he returned and reached out for her drink. Her fingers brushed against his as her hand wrapped around the cup, sending a jolt through him.

_But she’s not ‘my lady,’_ G’raha thought viciously, and that truth had him gripping the plastic coffee cup so tightly that the domed top popped off with a snap. The coffee sloshed over their hands, and Ravella gasped and jumped at the cold. He let go abruptly, startled himself by the shock of liquid and ice spilling over his fingers, and with that movement, she jerked the cup towards herself, further splashing the coffee over her shirt and pants.

“Ah!” she shouted. Her gaze roved quickly, and she snatched napkins from the dispenser on the table. She wiped her hands perfunctorily and then tossed piece after piece onto the droplets that had scattered across their notes and fallen dangerously close to her laptop.

G’raha stood panicked for a moment. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the café on them, and he fought the urge to fling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head.

He stared at her _white_ shirt with growing horror as the tan splashes sunk irrevocably into the fabric, and he quickly shoved napkins towards her to use on her clothes.

“M-my apologies!” he stammered.

Once she was assured that their work was not compromised, Ravella started chuckling. She dabbed at her shirt and pants unsuccessfully.

“I’m going to have to change,” she said, shaking her head, but a smile still graced her lips. “It’s a good thing I have a suitcase full of clothes right here.”

She reached out and grabbed the handle of the green suitcase sitting under the table. “Could you pack up here and then meet me outside the restrooms over there? We should get some dinner anyway.”

G’raha nodded as she turned to go across the way. He slowly collected their notes and papers and slotted them carefully into binders and folders before packing those away into his bags. A sheet of paper slipped out of a stack and fluttered to the floor.

He picked it up and was about to place it in a folder, but the lack of words on the page caught his attention. Instead, sketches adorned the paper -- beautiful feathery lines in both pen and pencil.

Sketches of _him_.

In one, he was reading, his arm tucked up under his chin; in another, diligently writing, the details of his hand holding the pen careful and delicate. A few were just quick sketches of his face, turned at various angles -- the most recent, it seemed, was a sketch of him from behind, standing at the coffee shop counter, his tail curling to the side. For several of them, Ravella had taken her red grading pen and colored in his eyes or crosshatched sections of his hair.

He took a quick breath to try to calm his frantic heartbeat and then replaced the paper in the stack. With shaking fingers, he slid her laptop into its travel bag with a bright yellow chocobo stitched onto the front and slung it over his shoulder. He wiped the table down one more time and escaped the café area quickly, feeling as if his face was as red as his hair.

After checking the status of the plane again on the information screen -- still delayed -- he waited for her outside the restroom, as she requested.

She was immensely talented, G’raha knew. She made birdhouses and small endtables; her Ishgardian muffins had won awards at a culinary fair; she sewed her own cardigans and blouses; and she painted small watercolors to gift to her friends at Starlight. Her success would be obnoxious if not for the easygoing way she held herself, and he knew how much time and effort she spent cultivating her skills.

That she would see him as a worthy subject --

With a deep breath, he fluttered his eyes shut to close out the bustle of the airport around him.

_Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth_ , he reminded himself.

“This will be a slow process, G’raha,” his therapist, Rammbroes, had said during one of their sessions. “It will take time to recover your health and happiness and confidence. You are doing well. I do not expect you to bounce back overnight. For now, try to live in the moment as best you can.”

When he opened his eyes, the _moment_ he found himself living in nearly made him choke.

Ravella emerged from the restroom and walked towards him, dressed now in a new outfit: tight dark pants and a new white top, but unlike the regular V-neck t-shirt that had been ruined by the coffee, this one had a low square neckline lined with ruffles. The bodice hugged her torso that then flared into a high-low tunic with more ruffles along the edges.

_Wicked white_ , he cursed internally, and his ears and tail spasmed as he tried desperately to keep them neutral.

He looked away quickly as she leaned forward to collect her laptop bag from him, the ruffles along the neckline tempting his gaze, and a very unhelpful part of his mind reminded him that he was _the perfect height_ for lavishing her chest with attention.

G’raha swallowed thickly and determinedly tilted his chin up, to look at her face.

She smiled down at him, impossibly lovely, and he could not help but imagine a string of gold and crystal linking his heart to hers.

She offered her arm to him, and he looped his through it as they gathered up the rest of their bags.

"Come on, G'raha," she proclaimed. "Let's go find something to eat."


	3. A World of Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions/descriptions of character deaths; continued G'raha depression

They had a pleasant dinner of sandwiches and soft drinks purchased from one of the fast food shops lining the airport terminals. 

Ravella regaled him with stories about her fellow professor friends in the other academic departments of the university -- Alphinaud Levellieur in the political science department who radiated charm and sincerity but occasionally put his foot in his mouth; his twin sister, Alisaie, a fierce coach of the fencing program who would sooner brandish a foil in your face than have long, drawn-out discussions; Urianger Augurelt, the astronomy professor whose way of talking sounded as old as the stars he studied; Y’shtola Rhul, an accomplished literature analyst who vacillated between welcoming warmth and bone-chilling witticisms; and Thancred Waters, the handsome acting professor who could slip easily into any role and who brought a measure of teasing and levity to the often-serious group. 

G’raha had met her friends a few times, but his sabbatical in Norvrandt had taken him away from everything and everyone for such an extended period of time that he felt as if he were reaching across a rift to connect to that aspect of her life.

The latest story was of Thancred and Urianger taking Thancred’s niece, Ryne, and her friend, Gaia, to a festival. Urianger apparently performed well at a card game, and there was ensuing hilarity when Gaia beat Thancred at the Crystal Tower Striker game by wielding the hammer as if she was born to do so. 

“Gaia even went so far as to say that if she could beat Thancred at that, then she might as well call Thancred the scholar and Urianger a knight,” Ravella relayed, laughing. “Ryne said she had never seen Thancred so piqued!”

As G’raha watched her talk animatedly, the fluorescent lights shone down, and he was reminded of the soft glow of her hair and skin under the amber lamps of the coffee shop around the corner from the university, where they started working on what would become their book on soul-bonds.

“Do you believe in them?” she had asked him then. “In soul-bonds?”

“I --” He paused as the scents of espresso and baked goods surrounded him. “Perhaps, although not quite in the forms described by the ancients. I do not believe that I will find a mark on my body that matches one on my intended’s, but I do believe in destiny to a certain extent -- and that some people are meant to be together.”

He watched her take a drink of her coffee, her gaze fixed on him.

He glanced away and cleared his throat. “And you? Do you believe in soul-bonds?”

Ravella set the coffee cup down and tapped her fingers against it. “If you’d asked me that a few years ago, I might have said yes -- with similar caveats to what you mentioned. But now --”

She shrugged almost sadly and gave him a wry smile. “I do not. If I did, I would be tempted to think that I wouldn’t have another chance at love. And I want to believe that I do.”

G’raha tilted his head at her. “What do you mean by that, my friend?”

With a mournful smile, she wrapped her hands around her cup of coffee and held it close to her. “I was engaged, a few years ago.”

G’raha jolted at that news. He had thought -- but of course, he would not be the only one to find her attractive,  _ of course _ someone had caught her eye -- but his brain stumbled over the past tense of the statement, because if someone had won her hand, how could anyone possibly let her  _ go _ ?

“His name was Haurchefant Greystone, and we were college sweethearts. He stood by me during a very stressful time in my life, and we loved each other very much. But --”

Her gaze darted away to the corners of the room, where college students and couples sat amicably at tables. Her voice dropped to a murmur.

“We went to the bank one day, and there was a robbery while we were there. He -- he threw himself in front of me, to save me. All I remember is a gunshot, and him telling me not to cry, to smile . . .”

She shook her head and forced a small quirk of her lips.

“I have reached the point now where I know he would want me to be happy, to live my life to the fullest. So I am elated to study soul-bonds with you, from an academic perspective, but I choose to keep the door to my heart open.”

At her tale, a shock of ice gripped his chest, as cold as crystal, that insidious weight from when he suffered alone in Norvrandt, and so he reached out across the table, across their notes and books, and gripped her hand fiercely. 

“You,” he declared, “deserve all the good this world has to offer, my friend. I am sure you will find whatever your heart desires.”

* * *

After dinner, they claimed several seats at their gate. The sun had long since set, and although they searched the blanket of night for stars, the airport floodlights drowned out any chance of spotting them. 

Ravella slumped in her seat so much that her head was level with his, and her purple ears twitched agitatedly in his peripheral vision. He could faintly catch a whiff of her lavender shampoo. If he turned but a little, he could plant a kiss at the base of one of her ears.

His fingers trembled in his lap to imagine what it could feel like to touch the sacred softness of her hair and ears, to press his lips against the crown of her head -- 

An attendant stepped behind the information desk in front of the gate door and raised her voice:

“We regret to announce that the flight to Kugane must be cancelled due to engine trouble. If you will form a queue, we will provide further information on rescheduling and lodging for this evening.”

G’raha nudged Ravella’s shoulder, and she groaned as they stood and trudged over to the forming line.

“I suppose we’re going to miss the keynote speech,” she murmured, pulling up the Historical Society conference itinerary on her tomeStone phone. “Thank the Twelve we’re not scheduled to present until the day after next.”

“Indeed,” he murmured. The sense of deja vu crawled over his skin like levinbolts. His flight home to Eorzea from Norvrandt had been delayed by engine issues all those months ago, and he had kept a silent, desperate vigil in the airport, squeezing his fists so hard that he drew blood from his palms as he tried to fight back the sense of creeping  _ stasis _ that Norvrandt engendered in him. He would hold his vigil as long as it took, but he  _ would _ get on that plane and travel back across the ocean to Eorzea.

G’raha breathed in harshly through his nose and glanced up at Ravella standing next to him. He was not alone this time, he reminded himself.

He stood at her side now.

The Elezen attendant apologized for the inconvenience, traded out their tickets for new ones for a flight in the morning, and provided them with transportation and hotel vouchers for the night. They gathered their bags and suitcases and followed the airport signs pointing to the taxi and rental cars. 

When they piled into a taxi, Ravella held her hand in front of her mouth as her jaw cracked with a yawn. 

“You cursed us,” she accused gently, “by mentioning your previous delayed flight.”

G’raha shook his head in regret. “It appears I did. My apologies, my friend.”

“You don’t have to apologize so much, you know.”

He lowered his head. He pitched his voice low, acutely aware of the driver just a few fulms away.

“I do, though,” he murmured, rubbing his hands together.

She nudged him this time, digging her elbow into his ribs. He jumped at the pain. The flash of streetlamps through the taxi window threw strokes of light and dark across her form.

Her dark eyes pinned him to the seat. “You  _ don’t _ ,” she insisted.

When he looked away from her, she huffed and slouched down in the seat. He stiffened as she leaned her head against his own, their hair mixing together.

“Cheer up, Raha. We get to spend the night in a hotel with clean fluffy beds that we don’t even have to pay for!”

His name -- _his_ _name_ , unadorned, vulnerable, falling from her beautiful lips. He shivered at the sound and could not help but nuzzle closer to her. She hummed in contentment as the rumble of the road rose up around them.

* * *

He had traveled from Eorzea to Norvrandt for a visiting professorship at the behest of the renowned historians Doga and Unei. He was awarded a research grant and unlimited access to the Crystal Tower with the goal for them to write the preeminent source about the fall of the Allagan Empire and the resulting Umbral Calamity.

It was something so innocuous -- merely driving into town to get dinner -- that had ended in tragedy. G'raha had been in the car with Doga and Unei and had commented on the beauty of views from the highway, the water gleaming down below as they followed the gray pavement along the cliffside.

That sentiment now tasted like ash in his mouth.

The memories were clouded by adrenaline and the sharp scorch of terror, but there were some aspects that were forever imprinted into him:

a blinding flash from the headlights of the other vehicle; the screeching of tires as Doga swerves their car, followed by a sickening tightening in G'raha's stomach as they crash through the barrier and careen off the side of the road;

screams -- from Unei? Doga? himself?

horrendous crunches as the car bounces and rolls down the cliffside, his body flung forward and back, until finally there is a huge splash and the rush of water filling the car; 

distantly pain throbs along his head, blood streaking into his left eye, but he frantically forces his numb fingers to undo his seatbelt, to reach forward to help Doga and Unei where they are still trapped in the front seats, the mangled metal of the front of the car preventing their escape;

Unei’s eyes are wild as she struggles with her own seatbelt; it is she who first shouts at him to open his door and go, and Doga takes up the call -- the dark water gushes in; G’raha’s door manages to open, and he slips out; 

he hesitates; they both scream at him to  _ go _ ,

and he does -- he swims and scrambles until he climbs to safety on the shoreline. 

Doga and Unei disappeared beneath the water into a world of darkness.

Afterwards, once he had been seen by a chirurgeon and deposited safely back into his rented flat near the Crystal Tower, he sat still in the darkness and tried to remember how to breathe.

When he emerged, he was determined to complete the research that he, Doga, and Unei had started.

It became an all-consuming lucubration.

He ate little. He slept less.

He read nearly every book in the famed Crystal Tower library. He greedily consumed every bit of information in the ancient texts. He kept meticulous, cross-referenced notes. He scratched out paper after paper compiling the stories and lives of the Allagans -- from royalty to peasants -- as their empire collapsed around them. In the blink of a few decades, successes and births gave way to disasters and deaths. And in the wake of the Calamity, the collapse of their political structure, the floods and earthquakes and famines, the people became convinced that they were cursed.

His colleagues asked him to rest. To join them for drinks and dinner and dancing.

G’raha declined.

What right did he have to partake of the pleasures of life when the friends who had invited him to this land now rested cold in the earth? When he was tasked with preserving the pain of so many who had come before?

There was no time to waste with such an impossible endeavor.


End file.
